I’ve decided to embrace sport.
Perhaps you’d like to read that again.
Assuming you have, the next assumption you’d probably make, if you know me well or intimately, is that I’ve finally lost the final pretzel that makes up my snack basket. So to speak. I’ve gone twelve monkeys. Or maybe, just maybe, I’m trying to better myself.
Since school, I haven’t held sport in high regard. I was an arts student in Cape Town for God’s sake, and now I fanny around with writing and musical instruments.
Couch potatoing has become a cultural part of my life. “Je suis une pomme de terre!” I declare proudly from the rooftops, paintbrush in hand.
It was suggested to me, however, that perhaps I actually don’t hate sport as much as I have made myself believe. Perhaps I just think it my right as a creative arty-farty to do fuck all physically, save the energetic boofing I like to do on a very regular basis.
See, ego is involved too. Get me up on water skis and I’ll look like a right fucking tosser. Make me run, and I’ll look like a sodomised ostrich with shin splints. I ran at school, and consequently it ruined itself through shin splints so bad, I often got carried off the cross country course in a stretcher.
Then there are sports that I do enjoy. These are ice skating, snow skiing, dance-offathons, and if I had the deportment, grace and petiteness, I’d most certainly want to be a ballerina.
Also, my boyfriends have always been sports fanatics. If I was a hockey player, say, perhaps this would’ve be a good medium in which to bond and be competitive.
So I’m going to make an effort to embrace what I previously thought I hated. Sport.
Save the flaming poenani, I really did enjoy the 94.7, and will be doing the Argus in March. I also plan to make the trek across town to Northgate to ice skate at least once a month. And even look into joining an ice hockey team. But I won’t get ahead of myself.
I've been getting onto my exercise bike recently and actually feel fucking amazing after I get off. An oke winked and checked me out when I crossed the road in my sweats to grab a juice from the café. Even though my ski shorts were hoiking up, exposing my thighs to all who could see.